74 Sycamore

It was a cold day, the kind of cold that caught in your throat, that stained your face primrose, that left your fingers feeble and blue. The snow fluttered gently onto the lampposts, the sun dimmed a gentle orange over the town, the only sound the distant ringing of church bells. On 74 Sycamore street, there sat a small red house, with a door that creaked when it opened and paint peeling off the sides.The backyard unkept and blanketed in snow, a mailbox perched on the fence, the branches of a willow tree skimming the wind. On the porch sat a lovebird swing, a rusting swing that howled with the wind. Red robins adorned the picket, dots of crimson in crystal snow. The house could only belong to Peter Miller; where he sat, as always, hunched over in his office.

He shuffled through his folder of papers, counting, 35 done, 22 left, he thought to himself. Click, click, click, he continued editing and grading on his computer. “The purpose of the passage……I think that…The second reason I believe…” All at once, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand the “click clicking” of his computer as he moved his cursor through countless documents. He couldn’t stand the old furnace turning on and off at random, he couldn’t stand how cluttered his office was, oh he had meant to clean it, but never had. He couldn’t stand the coffee stain on his pants, he couldn’t stand how the window creaked against the wind when he left it open, and he couldn’t stand the thought of the holidays. He couldn’t stand the sound of christmas music or church bells, he couldn’t stand to think that tomorrow was Monday, and that meant another day, another week, of work, that was until winter break. As much as he dreaded work, the thought of the winter break was only worse, a week off with nothing to entertain himself with, he’d be finished grading papers by the end of the week. 

Perhaps he could take a trip, but to where? There wasn’t anywhere he deemed exciting enough that he could care to drive to, not by himself at least. He could always phone his mother, drive down to new york to see her for the holidays, but there were always questions with her. How’s work? How are things? Did you see the parade this year? Have you met anyone new? He’d phone her on Christmas Eve, he decided, but he wouldn’t go to New York. Caught up with work, he’d say, same as always. Just helping out locally, he’d say. A week in the house, with nothing to do with himself, he thought. Oh, what was he to do? What was he to do? The silence, he thought, was what he couldn’t stand most of all. It reminded him how utterly alone he was, how no amount of holiday music could fill the piercing silence that he lived in. He knew what people thought of him, a grumpy old man.  And it’s not to say that wasn’t true, because it was, but oh how he wanted people to know that it wasn’t all he was, not at all. He hadn’t been like this his entire life, he wasn’t just some basket case, no, he could pinpoint the moment everything went wrong. 

It was 3 years ago, early December. He had been sitting, hunched over in his office, working. He had been trying to focus, rubbing his hand over his face in frustration, but it was fruitless, the heater was on too high, he could feel the sweat beading his forehead, he felt like he was catching a cold, and Ellie wouldn’t stop nagging him. It was the 5th time in an hour she interrupted his work, the first time it was about helping wrap gifts, than cleaning the dishes, and now-what was it now? “Peter, would you go pick up the pies from the bakery? I asked you hours ago?” she said. She stood in the doorway, her hand resting on the frame. “Does it look like I can pick up pies??” he said, unable to conceal the agitation in his voice. “I’m busy,”he rose from where he sat at his desk, tracing across the room only to close the door on her. 

He did finish his work, reading carefully through assignments, finishing the week’s lesson plans, organizing files, only then did he notice the darkness that had enveloped the house. The last trace of sunlight was long gone, outside the window the sky was stained midnight, the only light coming from the dim of the streetlamps below. How long had it been, he thought, since he’d started working. He realized how tired he was, circles danced around his eyes, fatigue tugged at his limbs. He stumbled downstairs to the kitchen, to make dinner. It only than occurred to him how quiet the house was. There was no sign anyone was home, except for the occasional creak of the floorboards as he walked. Where was Ellie anyways? He thought. It had been hours since he last seen her, when she’d asked him about the pie. The living room was deserted, as was her room. He felt a sense of dread overtake him, a horrible feeling that clawed at his insides, that something terrible had happened, he knew it, he knew it. 

He threw open the front door, and her car was gone. That meant she had to be out, still, he thought. But Ellie hardly ever left for more than a few hours, not to pick up pie, at least. Where was she? He felt his heart quicken. Something was wrong, oh, something was wrong, he just knew it. He got into his car, plugged the keys into the ignition. He parked in the town center, frantically walking, running, searching. He’d stopped by the bookstore, the library, the department store, the grocery, the bakery, but no, no sign of Ellie. No one had seen her either. She must have gone somewhere else, he thought, but where? He didn’t know many bakeries aside from the local one, not that he’d ever looked anyways. He’d stop by the house, grab his hat and scarf, he thought. The temperature had dropped 10 degrees since he’d left the house, and a chill coursed through his bones. He pulled into the driveway, slamming the car door shut behind him. He had gone a few steps before he noticed the dark figures standing on his porch. As he stepped into the light, he realized they were police officers. The shorter one stepped forward from the darkness only slightly; “Are you Mr. Miller, resident of 74 Sycamore?” he said.

“Yes that’s me,” Peter said, his voice faltering. “We’re sorry to tell you, your wife…..”

All at once, he couldn’t breathe. He began to shake, sobs racking his body, his face flooded with tears. He brought his hands to his face only to find that they trembled, he held his face in trembling hands and his heart, well, he had nothing to hold his heart. He cried until the sun rose, flickering gently on the horizon, setting fire to the sky. It was pie, he thought. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. It was pie, he thought, that’s all it was. All he’d had to do was pick up pie, for christmas at Ellie’s family’s, it would’ve been an hour at most. But he’d ignored her, yelled at her, even. And now she was dead. 

Oh, how could a man be so stupid as he was, to have everything and throw it all away, to be so stubborn, so bitter and so awful, that’d he lost his wife. “You know, It wasn’t your fault,” his mother told him once, on the phone.  “It was an accident.” But she was wrong-it wasn’t an accident, because he could’ve stopped it. Accidents are used to explain things that are unexplainable, not as excuses for foolish people. It wasn't an accident, because it was his fault. Because he ignored her when she asked about the pie, just as he’d ignored her other requests. Because he didn’t get the pie, because he let her leave the house when when it was snowing, let her drive on icy roads, because he let her go alone. Because he didn’t help out when she needed it, because he was ungrateful, because he was lazy, and exhausted, yes, there was blame, and it was entirely his. 

He missed her, he missed waking to her cooking breakfast in the kitchen, he missed the smell of the lavender lotion she wore, the way she pinned her hair, the way she made his coffee exactly as he’d liked it. He missed picking out a christmas tree in town with her, walking under the dim of the lights in the snow, Sunday trips to the diner, even grocery shopping, picking out ingredients for salad. He hated the person he turned into since her passing, irritable and grumpy and downright miserable. He was of no use to anyone, no good to anyone. He hardly helped the town, never participated in community events or attended parties, he was a mediocre teacher at best, his career had been something of a failure, he’d only now realized. He’d hadn’t done anything great, anything impactful of sorts in his life, no, the best thing he’d ever done was marrying Ellie, but now she was gone.

 By the new years, he decided, he would quit his job. It was for the best, he hadn’t any real reason to continue teaching. He’d move, where, he didn’t know, but he’d move. He suddenly became increasingly aware of how suffocating the house felt, how each step served as a reminder of the past. There was nothing good for him here, no one thought highly of him, or thought of him at all, because he had lived such a measly, insignificant life. 

The clock read 7:22, and he was late for work. He dragged himself into the shower, combing his hair into place, got dressed in one of his suits, and shoved last night’s work in his backpack. He downed two cups of coffee, grabbed his keys and wallet from the table. When he’d arrived in the school parking lot, he sat a moment, watching the kids file into the building. He imagined what it must be like to be young again, to have a whole life ahead of you, a life full of possibilities, of chances. Another week, he reminded himself. Another week, and than, than what? He didn’t know, the only promise life held was disappointment.

It was Friday, the day before break, and he let himself trudge slowly into the school building. He should’ve planned something fun for class today, he thought. But he didn’t. He should’ve brought candy canes for everyone, he’d meant to, but he didn’t. It seemed his entire life was filled with should’ves and maybes that never amounted to anything, regrets and mistakes that stained his past. He was lost in thought, upon opening the classroom door, he heard shouts and laughter. It was only than he looked up and noticed the decorations strewn over the classroom, snowflake cutouts, pine needles and acorns on the window ledges, christmas tree decorations on the walls, little snowman, and his desk piled high with cards and gifts. What on earth? He could only begin to think. “Merry Christmas Mr. Miller!” the class shouted. “But-I don’t understand…what is this for?” he stuttered. “You!!” they said in response. One of his students, Allison, stepped forward. “We heard you were moving away, and we wanted to throw you a going away holiday party.” “But how…did you..?” He found himself, a man who was hardly flustered or at loss for words, absolutely speechless. He’d only announced his move a few days ago, while he’d met with the principal, not even to his class yet. And why, why, on earth, would they throw him a moving away party?

 He couldn’t fathom what this was for, not in the slightest. It was in this moment, as he stood in the doorway, briefcase in one hand, that it finally hit him. They liked him, they actually liked him, perhaps he had something of an impact on their lives, even in the discreetest of ways. Perhaps he hadn’t realized in all his pessimism that there was some good in his life, some good in others, some sense of well meaning in people. Perhaps people hadn’t only ever thought him a grumpy old man, or perhaps they did and loved him all the same. He now realized, his students didn’t wave hello at him in the mornings out of pity, just as his neighbors next door didn’t invite him over for their holiday parties because he was lonely, but because they liked him, they did! No, he decided, he wasn’t going to leave Eastcliff, he wasn’t going to leave the red house on Sycamore street, and he certainly wasn’t going to leave his students. They loved him, they did! He was afraid if he’d speak he’d choke, he was always so afraid, but the class was still looking at him eagerly, waiting for his response.

“Thank you guys….for all of this, really, but I’m not going anywhere,” he said, and for the first time in a long time, he felt lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted of his shoulders, and he smiled, a real, genuine smile, not the one he’d practiced so carefully in exchange for polite greetings or passing conversations, but something of real joy.